Ooh. It is a nice picture. We’d have really good food, too, not manky trays of coronation chicken and boring cold whole salmon that nobody eats. And maybe I could invite Brian and his new girlfriend. Oh yeah. I’d love to do that. In fact I could track down all my ex-boyfriends and invite them, with their dates, and then kiss the air on the side of their cheeks dismissively …
I never thought I’d get married. Not unless it was to some utter loser in the Brian mode who’d offer me a shitty registry office ceremony where you don’t even get to wear a dress, and afterwards everybody goes to some crap restaurant for a meal. I hate those civil weddings. What the hell’s the point, apart from making sure your man’s liable for a divorce settlement if he ever dumps you? It’s about as romantic as watching a plumber fix the bog. And, naturally, it was what I assumed I’d be getting, if some poor desperate fool ever decided to hitch his star to mine.
‘Are you for real?’ I ask. ‘You want to marry me?’
‘I’m not joking, Anna. I’m serious about you. You’re the one,’ he says, reaching out and taking my hand. ‘You’re clever, you’re ambitious, you don’t want me for my money, you’re nice, you’re interesting.’
‘Charles, I – I don’t know what to say.’ I’m flattered, but no. No thank you. It’s an honour, but I can’t. That’s what I should say, and yet I don’t. I don’t want to say any of those things, because I absolutely don’t want to wind up alone, and he’s offering me a way that I don’t have to.
‘Then don’t say anything,’ Charles suggests. ‘Think about it. It’s all I’ve done since I met you. You probably need more than one night.’
‘I can’t make any promises,’ I tell him.
Charles shrugs and polishes off the last of his soufflé. ‘I’m not worried,’ he says. ‘Because, like I said, you’re very clever.’
‘You’re sweet, but what’s that got to do with it?’
‘Everything,’ he says confidently. ‘You’ll mull it over, you know. And you’ll realize that I’m right. We’re trained to think of love and marriage as decisions to make with your heart, but that’s silly. They’re too important for that. They’re decisions we should make with our heads.’
I look at him, longingly.
‘You take your time,’ he pleads. ‘Sleep on it.’
It’s been so bad, you know. Being lonely all this time. Dating losers that treated me like rubbish, just so I had someone to go out with. Wanting and hoping to look different, and waking up every morning in the same tall awkward body with the same big-nosed face. Having everybody think I could only get a man like Brian – and then he’d dump me. Sure, I made a joke of it, because you have to, don’t you? You have to laugh at pain or you’d never make it through your workday. I thought that maybe now, when my career’s going better, I’d stop caring about romance. I’d just give up on it and find fulfilment in my job.
But for some reason that hasn’t worked at all. I still want love. And the wine and gloom in the restaurant are softening Charles. Like he said, a couple of bottles of champagne, turn down the lights … I’m sure I could cope. Plus, I like him, he wants a family, and he wants to give me a life of luxury. That song from Four Weddings starts playing in my head: the one about getting married and not being lonely any more.
I want that. Not to be lonely any more. And I can actually have it. I look at Charles Dawson and I feel a huge wave of gratitude, real gratitude, and I think, gosh, I love you, I love you for rescuing me.
‘No need for that,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’d love to marry you, Charles. Thanks very much.’ And I reach across the table and kiss him on the lips.
‘Oh God,’ he says, eyes blinking owlishly. ‘Oh God. Really? That’s – that’s fantastic. We’re going to be so happy.’
‘I know we are,’ I agree, and take another huge gulp of wine.
* * *
Charles pays the bill and then pours me into a taxi.
‘D’you want to go home?’ he asks.
I shake my head. If we’re going to be married I’m going to have to sleep with him, so I might as well get it over with, I think. If Charles can be all logical about it, so can I.
‘Let’s go back to your place,’ I suggest, lowering my voice.
He smiles at me. ‘Sure.’ And kisses my hand reassuringly. The taxi interior seems to be swaying a bit, so I lean my head against the window and watch the jewel-like raindrops that are glittering against the glass. Anything not to think about it. Charles seems to know how I’m feeling. He backs off, removing his hand and looking out of the other window, and I’m grateful that he’s not trying to push it.
When we get to his building he over-tips the driver and offers me his arm to go inside, which could be out of chivalry but could also be a cunning plan just to keep me upright. I stagger inside the flat and he takes me straight into his bedroom, which is just as I expected: cosy, with cream linens and bookshelves, and not a bit sexy.
‘I’ll just go and freshen up,’ I say brightly. He’s got a little ensuite bathroom with a tub and no shower, and I root around frantically in the medicine cabinet, desperate for some KY jelly. Only there isn’t any, so I have to use water. I sluice out my mouth with spearmint Listerine and that’s my ablutions taken care of. I peel off my clothes, grit my teeth and open the door, trying not to be too frightened. It’s only sex, after all. I’ve done it before. Never liked it, but so what? You don’t like going to the dentist and you have to do that, as well.
‘Coming, ready or not,’ I say brightly, stepping forward seductively, but the room’s pitch dark and I catch my foot on the end of his rug, which slips loose from its moorings and slides forward two inches, sending me tumbling to the ground.
‘Bloody hell, are you all right?’ asks Charles, from somewhere ahead of me.
‘Fine,’ I say, feeling like a total prat.
‘Let me get the light,’ he says.
‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ I beg. Heaven forbid. I don’t know which is less appetizing, the thought of being seen naked, my love handles offered up for inspection without so much as a filmy, forgiving negligee to cover them, or the idea of having to gaze on Charles as nature intended. He’s so short, especially compared to me. And I feel sure he’s got a really bony chest, I mean he’s got to, being as skinny as he is …
‘No problem,’ Charles says, sounding relieved. ‘Come straight ahead. Yes … yes … there you go,’ as I stumble forward and reach the soft goose-feather duvet.
Not skinny, I tell myself, slim. Not short, just … compact. I want to ask if we could make a start on those two bottles of champagne now, but I don’t dare say anything. It would sound too mean. Besides, I’m half slaughtered as it is, I don’t want to actually pass out on him. I don’t think he’d attribute it to a frenzy of passion.
I crawl into the bed. Charles has pulled back the sheets and he reaches for me, his bony (and yes, it is bony) arm snaking round my plump waist.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, reassuringly. I would like to think he was psychic, but it’s probably actually just because I’m as stiff as a board with nerves. ‘It’ll be OK.’
And he does his best, fiddling here and stroking there, and it’s not as bad as I’d expected. At least, it’s not painful. But it is kind of nasty and embarrassing and the only thing I want to do is get it over with. At least it doesn’t last long. Charles doesn’t say much, just grunts a bit, and manages to finish in about two minutes, so even though they’re two really, really long minutes, I tell myself that this won’t be a problem, that I can handle this.
After he’s done he turns me round so we’re spooning and kisses the top of my shoulder, and then he falls asleep right away. He snores lightly and I think I’ll never be able to get to sleep, but it doesn’t take long before my body un-tenses and I’ve slipped off myself.
* * *
‘Wakey-wakey.’
I blink. I’m not sure where I am. And then I remember. Charles’s face is looming above me, like Richard Gere’s over
Julia Roberts’ in Pretty Woman. With some marginal differences, such as that Charles looks sod-all like Richard Gere. Sadly.
Oh no, he doesn’t want a morning quickie, does he? Involuntarily I pull the goose-feather duvet round me, but Charles is already fully dressed (grey suit, white shirt, cufflinks, unfortunate pink tie) and not making any aggressive moves towards my naked body.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine fifteen,’ he says.
‘Oh bloody hell, I’m late.’ I jump out of bed and race to his little ensuite bathroom, shutting the door with lightning speed so he can’t get a good look at my nude flesh in the morning light.
‘Couldn’t you take the morning off?’ he asks, standing outside and knocking gently on the door. I open it a crack, so he can see just my face.
‘I can’t, I’m really sorry. I have to get back home to get some new clothes and everything,’ I wail. ‘It’s going to be half ten by the time I get in, at the earliest. Kitty’ll kill me!’
‘Say you’re meeting a writer,’ he suggests. ‘It’s true, at least technically.’
I pause. ‘That might be worth a try.’
‘I want to go shopping with you,’ Charles says.
I blink. ‘Shopping? What for?’
‘Well, we are getting married,’ Charles says reasonably. ‘Don’t you think we should get you a ring?’
* * *
‘Afternoon,’ I say, happily, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Beautiful day, don’t you think? Not too hot, just perfect,’ I add, waving my left hand insouciantly around to indicate the perfection of the weather. Then I curl my hand round my coffee cup and start to drum my fingers idly on my desk.
It’s 2 p.m. and I’m just back in the office after lunch with Charles. I told Kitty I was doing some scouting work for Mark Swan. I’ll have to spend an afternoon typing up totally fictitious location reports, but it’s completely worth it. Charles spent all morning with me in jewellery shops I’d normally be frightened to even go into, and now I’m flinging my hands around like a TV evangelist just hoping somebody will ask me about the fantastic rock on my finger …
‘What the fuck is that?’ asks Sharon, suddenly.
She noticed! I think, gleefully. Well, she probably noticed five minutes ago and has been battling with herself not to ask me, not to give me the satisfaction, and now she’s finally given in.
How could she not notice?
‘This?’ I ask casusally. ‘Oh, this is my engagement ring.’
‘No it bloody isn’t,’ snaps Sharon. ‘That’s not real…’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘My God,’ she says, her face draining of blood. ‘It is real?’ She snatches up my hand, gasping. ‘No way, Anna. No way!’
‘What’s all this?’ Kitty asks, emerging from her office. I try to extricate my hand from Sharon’s, but it’s too late. Kitty has descended on both of us like a hawk, scowling thunderously.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, fake sweetly. ‘Anna, you have my copy of the location reports?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘What’s this?’ she asks, taking my hand from Sharon. ‘Pretty. Is it Butler and Wilson?’
My ring is gorgeous. A glittery princess-cut ruby, pigeon’s blood red and translucent, four carats, with two trillion-cut diamonds on each side.
‘No,’ I mutter. ‘It’s real.’
Kitty’s groomed eyebrow lifts. ‘What? Real?’
‘Yes, Charles and I got it at Garrard’s,’ I say.
‘Charles is your fiancé now?’ asks Sharon, setting her teeth.
‘Who’s Charles?’
‘The book guy,’ Sharon informs her. ‘Turns out he’s Anna’s boyfriend.’
‘You can’t do favours for your personal friends, Anna,’ says Kitty severely. Her body has gone all rigid.
‘I don’t know why he’d bother, he doesn’t need the money,’ Sharon informs her. ‘Got a stately home and everything.’ She sighs. ‘Well done, Anna,’ she adds grudgingly. ‘You really scored there.’
‘I scored because Charles is a very nice person,’ I say, looking at my ring.
‘It’s nice, if a little ostentatious,’ sniffs Kitty. Apparently only she is allowed to flash huge diamond rings around the office. ‘Congratulations.’ Then a light comes into her eyes. ‘Shall I tell Mark you don’t want to work with him any more?’
‘What?’ I ask, panicking. ‘Why?’
‘Well, you won’t need to now, will you, dear?’ she says. ‘You’ll be far too busy planning a wedding, and then there’ll be babies and who knows if you’ll even come back to work.’ Kitty’s eyes are beady little slits. She sounds as sexist as my grandad.
‘I’ll still be working, Kitty,’ I say, as firmly as I dare. ‘I want to make movies.’
She gives me a saccharin smile. ‘Perhaps you can get your husband to bankroll some.’
I pretend I haven’t heard.
‘Get me those location reports within the hour,’ she says crisply, and flounces off.
Her words leave a touch of ice in the warmth of my day. I can see it now. Kitty will go to Eli Roth, try to make it seem like I’m marrying money and dropping out of movies. But I’m not going to, and I’m not about to let her push me out, either.
‘It’s a lovely ring,’ says Sharon, ingratiatingly. ‘You’ve always had such taste, Anna. I can’t wait to see what your wedding dress is going to be like. I am going to be invited, aren’t I?’
I look at her eager face and can’t help it.
‘Oh, sure,’ I say.
‘Brilliant. Thanks, Anna,’ she says, gratefully. ‘Weddings are the perfect place to meet guys. Maybe I could even find one like yours,’ she says, wistfully.
I thought Charles was meant to be a midget and the only man I could get, I want to say, but don’t. It’s been a lovely day, I tell myself firmly, and I don’t want anything to spoil it.
I’m finally alone at my desk. Thank heavens. I open up Final Draft. I want to get to the end of act one.
My mood lifts. I’m crackling with energy, I’m thrilled. I set to work, start typing furiously, one eye on Kitty’s door. No way am I letting her see this.
* * *
Charles is obviously going hard for Boyfriend of the Year award. He has two dozen blood-red roses delivered to my desk in the afternoon, provoking long drawn-out sighs of sheer envy from most of the girls in the office (the news had spread everywhere thirty seconds after Sharon left my desk), and he calls to say he’s booked us in to the Ivy for dinner because it’s nice and close to my work. And asks if ‘Jane and Lucy’ can join us. I decline on their behalf.
‘We’ll have to tell everyone,’ he says enthusiastically. ‘I thought we’d start with your friends. After your parents, of course.’
Mum and Dad! With a guilty start, I realize I had forgotten about them. Of course I must tell them.
‘What about your parents?’
‘Both dead,’ he says. ‘If they were alive I wouldn’t have Chester House.’
‘Right.’
‘But I’ve got you now,’ he says, delightedly. ‘You’ll be my family.’
‘Course I will,’ I say, loyally.
‘I want to put the announcement in the papers. And we must have a party. Vanna will be thrilled.’
‘She will,’ I agree.
‘Maybe you two can plan it together,’ Charles says. ‘Vanna’s wonderful at parties. We want to make it really big with loads of guests,’ he says. ‘All your friends.’
‘Right,’ I repeat. All my friends? Who are they? Janet and Vanna, basically. Lily and Sharon, possibly. Claire Edwards. And, um, that’s it.
Oh, except Mark Swan. A chill runs through me at the thought of inviting him, somehow. I don’t know why. Lily and Janet will be all over him, yeah, but he’s used to that.
No, I don’t know why, but I definitely don’t want him there. Probably because it’s not a good idea to mix business and personal. I’m a serious professional now.
I’m a screenwriter. Or I will be one, soon. No need to mess things up for myself.
Yeah. That must be it.
‘So we’ll go and see your parents on Sunday, for a late lunch. About eleven start.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your parents,’ Charles says patiently. ‘And it’s “what”, darling, not “sorry”.’
‘Oh. Yes. Absolutely,’ I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic.
‘You’re OK with that, aren’t you?’ he asks, guardedly.
‘Oh sure,’ I say. ‘It all seems to be moving a bit fast, that’s all. But it’s great,’ I add hurriedly. ‘You put the announcement in the papers, then.’
‘I will. Do warn your parents, they’ll want to cut it out and keep it,’ Charles says. ‘Day after tomorrow. Toodle-pip.’
‘Toodle-pip,’ I say, dutifully. Toodle-pip? I’m going to have to get used to that. I have a sudden vision of myself in ten years, a great strapping country matron with a ruddy, weatherbeaten face, clad in a Husky and wellies, tramping through my fields to check on my horses, or something. And I’ll say things like ‘down the hatch’ and ‘chin chin’ and stuff.
That’s pretty depressing, so I look down at my ruby and diamonds to cheer myself up. It works. They’re so bright and sparkly it’s like wearing a firework.
The phone rings again. I expect Charles, but it’s Vanna. She doesn’t actually say any words but I can tell it’s her by the high-pitched squeal of delight that starts at a note only dogs can hear and rises from there.
‘Daaaarling,’ Vanna shrieks when the squealing has tailed off. ‘You’re brilliant! Incredible! Fantastic! Spectacular! Amazing!’
‘You make me sound like I’ve just acquired super-powers,’ I say.
‘But you have,’ Vanna cries. ‘X-ray vision is nothing compared to the power to obtain vast estates with a single syllable! “Yes,”’ she sighs. ‘“I do.” Well, that’s three syllables but who’s counting? I’m so proud of you, Anna. I knew you had it in you. All those years and you were just waiting for the right chap. I bet you’re glad I lied to you about that dinner party now.’
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